


Where we lay our souls to rest

by WhatATime



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bat Family, Batfamily Feels, Brotherly Angst, Dick Grayson is Batman, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Needs A Hug, Family Drama, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Literary References & Allusions, References to Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 18:38:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17854985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatATime/pseuds/WhatATime
Summary: The world ends all at once. Bystanders scream. Babies cry. Villains laugh. Vigilantes die.Fire rains down from the sky in hot, round balls, leaving streaks of orange in their wake.The sun goes to hide.





	Where we lay our souls to rest

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> I haven't posted in forever (didn't all of February), but I've been working, and here's some stuff I'm sharing.

* * *

The world ends all at once. Bystanders scream. Babies cry. Villains laugh. Vigilantes die.

 

Fire rains down from the sky in hot, round balls, leaving streaks of orange in their wake.

 

The sun goes to hide.

* * *

A lot of people die. More normal people than heroes die. In fact, only one did.

 

The fact that it’s Batman is both a surprise, and in hindsight, inevitable. He was merely a man, after all. A great man, but a man he was nonetheless.

 

Many people wish he wasn’t dead, the man’s family most predominantly.

* * *

“Damian? You in there, kiddo?” Dick knocks on the door again.

 

No answer came from the tightly shut and locked bathroom door.

 

Dick inspects Damian’s dark, austere room. Nothing but a small polaroid of himself the and boy at the carnival hangs on the beige walls. His sheets are a boring black complemented by a black night stand holding a lamp and a clock.

 

“Weird, isn’t it?” Tim asks from behind him, leaning against the door jam. “It’s like a monk’s quarters or something.”

 

“He has a picture.” Damian’s been a ghost of sorts in the week since the Bat died. No one sees him or evidence of him sans the light cracking under the locked door of whatever room the boy occupies.

 

Tim snorts, though he isn’t laughing, or smiling even. “He has school the day after tomorrow.”

 

“I know.”

 

“First day.”

 

“I know.”

 

“He’s not going to want to go.”

 

 _“I know.”_ The exasperation drips like blood onto a white sheet.

 

“He’ll go if you tell him to.”

 

 _His dad just died._ “I won’t make him.”

 

Tim crosses his arms as his eyes dart to the bathroom door. “Fine,” he says, obviously finding Damian’s behavior annoying.

 

It’s silent until Dick knocks yet again. “Damian, come on out.” _We need to talk._ He resigns himself to the moment and slides down the wall to sit by the door. He perks at shuffling several minutes later.

 

Then out comes Damian, complete with healing bruises, scratches, broken ribs, a shattered wrist, and a crooked nose (that probably won’t ever be the same again, though it’s not likely Damian will care).

 

“Hey, kiddo.”

 

“Grayson.” Dark bags creep under the boy’s eyes. He glances at Tim on his way to his bed, where a book sits open on its front. “Drake.”

 

“Wayne,” Tim mutters.

 

“What do you require?” He picks his book up.

 

“Just checking in,” Dick says.

 

“Are you going to school?” Tim asks quickly.

 

Damian’s lips part, but Tim speaks again before he can answer.

 

“It’s the first day.”

 

“I’m well aware.”

 

Their eyes meet, and all the animosity their gazes held a mere week ago is gone, understanding. “Alfred could call you in sick.”

 

The boy nods before absconding his gaze, now reading his book. He mouths the words on the page to indicate the short quasi-conversation is over.

 

One hero died, and his family misses him.

* * *

Damian’s always been a finisher.

 

His grandfather taught him to finish off people.

 

His mother taught him how to finish a battle.

 

His father supposedly taught him five things, four in his life and another in his death:

 

 

  * __Be good.__


  * _Be respectful._


  * _Justice not vengeance._


  * _Protect the innocent._


  * _Listen to your mother._



 

 

* * *

One thing the Bat never did was drink.

 

His second-eldest son is an exception to the example set.

 

“Todd.” Damian slides onto the stool next to Jason.

 

Jason still remembers the days when Damian had to climb it. “Brat.” He’s still short.

 

“What’re you doing here?”

 

“Beer is proof God wants us to be happy.” He slowly sips his drink, allowing his taste buds to suck up the rest of the bitterness before swallowing the sour liquid.

 

Jason sometimes wonders who’s next. Everyone’d known the Bat would be first. The race is for second, and given the youngest Robin’s appearance, it’s almost clear who’s in the lead. _The first shall be last, and the last shall be first._

 

“And you’re happy?”

 

He stops lifting the bottle to his lips midway. “What? Are you a psychiatrist now or something?” _God knows we need one._

 

Damian scowls, not his usual one, as it lacks its quintessential bite.

 

“What d’you want?”

 

“I’m in need of your assistance.”

 

Jason stares at the kid for a second, chokes back a scoff. “With what?”

 

Damian removes a neatly folded piece of paper from his coat pocket. “Shopping.”

 

“Alf buys the groceries.”

 

“For school.”

 

He blinks.

 

“...I’m not licensed, and I can’t carry it all.”

 

Jason wants to ask why Damian chose him of all people to attend a school supplies run. He’s proud the kid even thinks him worthy, considering he’s not the best big brother he could be. “Ah, screw it.” He downs the rest of his drink and leaves the bar.

 

Damian-- somewhat flustered-- follows quickly.

 

The Bat had better things to do than drink. His second eldest isn’t yet an exception in that.

* * *

The Bat died, but the world goes on.

 

Tim can’t forget that. He can’t forget that one person isn’t supposed to be one’s world, but no one taught him any differently. His brothers-- he knows-- are in the same boat.

 

What’s a Robin to do?

 

Survive? Die? Something in between?

 

“...im.” Alfred tips Tim’s gaze up to him. “Is all right, my boy?”

 

 _No._ “Yes.” It’s a formal answer, obviously too formal for Alfred’s liking. He flinches when Alfred shines the light in his eyes.

 

“Nearly done,” the butler murmurs. He presses his hands around Tim’s middle, avoiding the bruises. “Successful patrol, I hope.”

 

Tim hums an affirmative. His lids lower as a wave of lethargy hits him.

 

“Any plans for tomorrow?”

 

“Not really. Lucius moved the board meeting to Tuesday.”

 

“I see. A good rest is in order then.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

It’s still going.

* * *

The Bat taught all his children morals, though many of them rarely followed the single dictum he had.

 

Morals are simple in theory but impossibly difficult in practice.

 

The trolley experiment comes to mind: Kill one and save many, or kill the many and save one.

 

The Bat’s family, though they’d never admit it, would all choose the same option.

* * *

The Bat is survived by the entirety of his family, but most importantly, a child.

 

A young boy who is the product of an assassin and the Bat. Though neither of them made great parents, the Bat was arguably the better of the two. With both dead, it falls upon a butler and an acrobat to sustain the child until he can himself.

 

Both, at the moment, are doing a painfully horrible job.

 

“I believe he had trackers on the lot of you, Master Dick.”

 

Dick looks up from his six unread texts to Damian. “He’d be mad.”

 

 _Better mad than dead._ “I’ll get right on that then.” Alfred squeezes Dick shoulder, offering the young man what little comfort he can offer given the household’s situation. The manor is nothing without its master, whom Alfred misses most dearly and most vigorously.

 

It’s yet to sway him to go visit his own child though. It merely plants him further in the dark city he never meant to make a home.

* * *

The Bat never prized education the way most parents do. His eldest tries to be different.

 

“He went to school,” Dick says, watching Damian exit the building with a rolling backpack Dick doesn’t remember buying him and clean uniform Alfred doesn’t recall pressing. He nearly leaps out of the car to let Damian in.

 

The boy calmly wears his usual scowl and doesn’t comment on the fact that he’d never asked to be picked up. “Grayson. Pennyworth.”

 

It’s stupid to go to school in his condition, but no one dare asks Damian about his black and blue face and slinged arm. The Wayne patriarch’s death is much more catastrophic, much more important, a mask the boy needs.

 

“Hey, Lil’ D.” Dick pecks Damian on the cheek before gently embracing the boy.

 

Damian slowly melts into the hug, his good fist releasing the handle of his bag.

 

“Did you have a good day?”

 

A small nod.

 

“That’s a nice backpack.” _Who bought it for you?_

 

“Todd took me shopping,” he said quietly.

 

 _Why didn’t you ask me?_ “That’s cool.” _I would’ve taken you._ He doesn’t mean to ignore the boy, but he finds the whole family often does, and it’s not as if Damian is good about making himself noticed. He never has since he first came as nine year old.

 

The car gently jolts to a start. Dick removes his arm only to buckle Damian up. “What’d you learn today?”

 

“It’s the first day...” His hand wraps in one of Dick’s. “...We went over syllabi…”

 

The new Bat tries to be as good as the old one, but he knows he’ll never achieve it (and that the pup he’s raising isn’t his).

* * *

The Bat was protector. No one did it better than him.

 

Strangled.

 

Jason seems to be convinced Damian belongs in a bubble. Tim’s not totally against it. The kid’s accident prone, seemingly more so, though Tim wouldn’t blame the kid due to recent events.

 

Damian looks up from his book, earbuds in and his arm resting on Titus. “You’re staring, Drake.” _A rasp._

 

He’s a kid, a child. His voice is still an octave too high, and he’s not a hair to his chin. So why do Bane’s hands bear marks up his neck? “That was stupid.”

 

No answer.

 

“Going out with a broken arm. What were you thinking?”

 

Damian’s nod at the limp figure a few feet away on the gurney said it all. Bane chokes Dick. Damian stabs Bane in the eye. Bane chokes Damian. They somehow survive to see tomorrow. “Would you rather I hadn’t?”

 

_What if I lost both of you?_

 

“Al Ghuls don’t die,” Damian says.

 

“Yet you’re the only one left.”

 

And that’s mean. It’s unfair. It’s nothing an older brother should ever say to his little one, but Tim’s said it, and it’s out there, and he can feel the progress dissipating.

 

Damian blinks away what appears to be tears.

 

Tim’s a monster.

 

“His being yours first doesn’t mean he wasn’t mine too. No one trusting me doesn’t make me untrustworthy. My not being an angel… _doesn’t_ make me a heretic. I. Don’t. Die.”

 

 _But you will._ Tim knows it’s true. Damian’s next. He wonders if anyone else knows it, if Damian does. It wouldn’t help anything to say it, or maybe it would…

 

Maybe if the Bat’s family accepted he was their only hope at protection, death would be a mercy rather than a disease.

* * *

The Bat’s two oldest boys want to be like him more than the others. Neither of them know it.

 

“How’s the kid?” Jason asks evenly, eyes trained on his diner menu.

 

“Fine,” Dick replies, doing the same.

 

“And the brat?”

 

“The same.” Dick clears his throat. “And you?” They both look up.

 

“Touché.”

 

“I thought I heard you and Tim talking French on the comms. Damian said it was Anne of Green Gables.”

 

“It’s an allegory.”

 

“Uh-huh. Bosom friends.”

 

Jason’s cheeks tinge red, but he nearly smiles.

 

“You took Damian to get a backpack?”

 

“Thought he told you.”

 

“We didn’t even know he went to school. Tore the cave and manor down looking for him just to use his tracker and find him at school.”

 

A chuckle. “That’s my boy.”

 

“We need to keep him safe.”

 

Jason frowns, his brows crinkling to concern. “Something happen?”

 

Dick shifts. “Bane.”

 

Jason’s hand twitched. His eyes scan Dick, whose marred neck and black eye make sense now. “But he’s okay?”

 

“Bane’s in the Arkham infirmary.”

 

“And the kid?”

 

“Fine. He couldn’t go to school.” Dick rubbed his neck.

 

Jason nods. _He’s next._

 

 _He’s next._ Dick returns it sadly.

 

“Boarding school?”

 

“Like Tim’s parents did. Great idea.”

 

“He’s too deep,” Jason concludes.

 

“Deep?”

 

“In everything.”

 

“It’s not his fault.”

 

“But it will be if he… if something happens to him.”

 

Dick goes to respond when a random in the mostly deserted diner yells for the television to be turned up.

 

Both their eyes widen.

 

“Joker dead?” Jason marvels.

 

The one thing the Bat never did that made him crazy was not kill the Joker. No one had succeeded, but with no head, the Joker surely wouldn’t be coming back.

* * *

The Bat had a daughter. She’s nearly the best of them.

 

“It’s not right,” Cass says to Tim.

 

“‘Course not, Cass, but you can’t deny it makes our lives a whole lot easier.”

 

She shoots darts with her eyes. “Doesn’t make it right.”

 

“Well yeah…” Tim trails off as his eyes move through a file. “We need to figure out who it is, though. Wouldn’t want another Hood on our hands.”

 

Cass turns her head to Tim. “Do you think--”

 

“He couldn’t have. I checked his alibis. Plus, I think he would’ve done it by now. He’s crossed off my list.”

 

“Who’s on it?”

 

Tim shrugs.

 

“Can I help?”

 

“Sure.”

 

The Bat’s daughter, though not the best, is truly second.

* * *

The Bat talked about morals a lot. His youngest always listened, but it’s gotten him nowhere.

 

Damian misses a lot of things: his mother, his father, Ra’s… stability.

 

Everyone looks at him differently.

 

He sees pity and fear in the eyes of all that surround him, as if he’s going to spontaneously combust if they don’t watch him, imbibe his mere presence.

 

He hates it,

 

So Damian wanders to the outermost parts of the manor property and takes much too many moments to commune with nature and Goliath, lounging on the dragon.

 

_(Gasp! Who knew birdboy part four had a brain!)_

 

The weather is quite nice. It’s the confluence of sweet pollen and freshly cut grass.

 

He relishes in the small blessing using conciertos and the absence of light, but he feels something creeping in like chocolate sauce dripping to the depths of a sundae bowl.

 

_(Let’s make it short and sweet, kid.)_

 

Damian refuses to deal with another glare. He turns to his sleep, awakening from his doze with one set of hands tugging off his shoes and pulling a blanket over him. His dry lips manage to scratch out his oldest brother’s name.

 

_(Oh! Don’t go breaking my heart!)_

 

“The League needs me tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.”

 

Damian squeezes his heavy lids open. “You’re never up before I leave for school.”

 

The blurry Dick seems to smile. “We’re calling you in sick, kiddo. You’re due for a break.”

 

He lifts his arms up.

 

_(Your father wouldn’t’ve dared!)_

 

Dick obliges him with a hug, lifting him off the bed, squeezing tight. “I’m proud of you, kiddo.”

 

( _I’m sure you’ve been such a good little boy.)_

 

“Now go to sleep.” He lays Damian back on the bed and brushes his lips against his forehead.

 

The Bat’s lectures have yet to make a difference, but his youngest almost hopes the eldest’s do.

* * *

The Bat choked, and no one can change it.

 

He taught his children many lessons.

 

They try to get by on them.

 

They don’t succeed or exactly fail.

 

For in this world of heroes in villains, of black and white confluenced to gray, no one knows which role to play when they’re thrown onto this stage of fools and shoved to their mark.

_As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods._

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is https://whatatime30.tumblr.com, so come talk to me on there if you'd like!
> 
> Constructive Criticism is welcome.


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